Caraway
by Queen of the Faeries1
Summary: "Caraway: an herb with natural powers that protect children." Something I found in a book.


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Caraway

You are running away again.

I can hear you lugging your bags down the stairs, screaming in fury when you bang your foot against the heavy oaken door. The dog seems to sense your distress; he jumps off his pillow—personally decorated by you—and runs on all fours to you. Sophie sets down the teapot and follows, her hands fluttering nervously. She is relatively new under my employment, and still intimidated. But she, like most of the weaker people, is drawn to your compassion. 

"Miss! Where are you going?"

"I'm leaving, Sophie! I can't take it anymore!" You shake your head wildly, and I notice you have put several bronze streaks in your night-black hair. When did you do that? It doesn't matter, you haven't listened to me for a long while now, almost ten years.

"But what about your father?"

"You can tell that…_that man_," You jab a finger viciously in my direction. "I am leaving for good this time, and I'm not coming back!" 

We used to be close. You used to run to me for a hug and call me Daddy. You have not called me Dad since your mother died, and I could never understand your reasons. I know that you are angry about the Galbadian Army taking over Timber. After all, it was where you were born, and the last time you saw your mother before that accident. But I am a general, child, what would you have me do?

You were always too emotional. I remember you as a chubby little child, crying at the smallest thing, ready to scratch someone at the slightest provocation. I had tried to take Angelo from you once, the first time you brought that stray home. I didn't want him to carry any diseases or hurt you with his claws, and tried to reach for him. But you scratched, and your nails were sharper than the dog's was. You were seven then, and you already held fire in your eyes. For the first time, I respected you, but I should have feared you then. It was the first sign that you would defend those that couldn't defend themselves. Maybe that little victory gave you the confidence to go and join that resistance faction in Timber. 

I swear, child, that I did not drive her away. Your mother. I did not mean to send her off that night. We were arguing about the china plates—_china plates, _for Hyne's sake!—and she stormed off, taking you with her, and you didn't even care that you had to give up your favorite meal to go along with her. I wasn't worried. She had done this often enough—after all, her artistic temperament was where you got yours. She usually stayed at a hotel in Timber for a couple of days, then move back like nothing had happened, and I loved her too much to push the matter. 

I did not know that it was raining hard there. I did not know that a little green car would be blinded by the rain and would swerve the corner and hit the rented car she was driving. I did not know that only you would survive, sitting in the backseat, all buckled in and holding your doll. I did now know she would die and leave your five-year-old mind scarred. I did not know you would blame me and leave our relationship strained for years. 

I do know how much you loved your mother. She was the one who would rock you to sleep, singing to you in that soft voice of hers that used to sing professionally. She would listen to you sing, listen to you stumble over the notes and correct you. 

I would have too. You simply didn't let me. Following your fifth birthday, you banished me from your room, and the only things to come out of your mouth to me were heated debates. 

I set down my teacup and head toward the front door. You, of course, immediately stop talking and glare daggers at me. "Where are you going?" It seems a harmless question to ask.

You fasten your Pinwheel to your wrist. "I'm going to Timber! But what business is it of yours? You've never cared about me."

You're wrong. So many times have I stayed by your bed to watch you sleep, because that was the only time you weren't yelling at or glaring at me. It was the only time you didn't look like you were in pain. 

You don't know my own childhood, otherwise you would not be so angry now. My father was a drunken bastard. He beat my sister to running away at fourteen, and later on, my mother too. "I'm sorry." She had said to me, her last words before she left. I haven't seen her since. 

It wasn't long after my sixteenth birthday that I decided to follow the family tradition: I ran off. I joined the Galbadian Army, the same army you loathe now. When asked to sign my name, I hesitated. I didn't want to carry the name of that pathetic drunk, alone and pitiable, that drove his family off. With a grand flourish, I signed my newly chosen name: Isaac Caraway.

Caraway because I remembered that it was a plant with special protection purposes suited for children. Even then, in my youth, I could see you: my only daughter, dark-haired and naïve, and knew that I could never do to you what my father had done to me, bruised me and left me alone. A child needs caring parents the most. 

That is why I sneak into your room though you expressly forbade it—to put caraway herbs under your bed, hoping their protective powers can help keep you safe because you will not let me do the same. I put them in little pouches tucked into the darkest corner underneath your bed. When the servants find it, they think it is a little trinket that you forgot about and throw it out. I just go and put more. You must not be hurt. To this day, you do now know the meaning of your name—Rinoa Caraway. 

You glare at me, waiting for my response, but I have none. What can I say? There are no words to express what I would do to protect you, but if you want to leave on your own, that is beyond my power. I can't protect you when you're far from me, but you won't let me protect you when you're here either. 

With a 'hmph' sound, you flounce out the door with a bag in each hand and faithful Angelo at your heels. You stop a cab and take off without a glance backward. 

"Sir!" Sophie gasps. "Aren't you going to stop her?"

I shake my head and hope beyond hope, invoking the powers of all the caraway plants, that you will be safe, and more importantly, happy.

"No, Sophie. Let her go."

Godspeed, child. May you stay safe.


End file.
